The stranger walked back to the car and said to Will, “Where to?!” Not in his usual slow and controlled tone. He was impatient.

  But Will doesn’t answer. He is still in the same position. The roar had turned his blood into ice. He couldn’t even move. He didn’t register the man entering the car and sitting next to him. He didn’t react to the question either. Even the gagging stopped.

  “Will! I asked you where to!" The man screamed at Will, shaking the boy, forcing him to sit upright. Will slowly turned his head towards the man, mouth half-open, and — like his limbs were made of wind — he pointed to the right.

  That roar. So loud, so threatening, so… offended? It sounded insulted.

  The stranger was agitated. He turned the car to the right in one go, and it slipped in the mud for a second, then took off in the direction the boy had pointed to.

  The man was driving fast. Too fast. More roars could be heard, but they were getting farther away. The driver was chasing the sound, swerving away from all the trash falling from the piles and piles of garbage.

  Then there was the end. No more roads. Last stop for the car.

  “We go on foot now,” the stranger said, already getting out of the car and going around it. Will didn’t move.

  “Come on, boy!” he grunted, grabbing Will by his shirt, dragging him through the stink and rubble. After an eternity of climbing and falling, they reached the top.

  What a view. The infinity of discarded human hopes, dreams, plans, communism. All piled on top of each other. It was the place where dreams of strangers meet, and die.

  The landfill was way bigger than the man had imagined. Will remembered it as looking infinite, like an ocean of trash. The moonlight shone bright over the endless piles of trash and for a brief moment it did look beautiful, if it wasn’t for the fetid smell.

  “How did such a small town have such a big landfill?” the stranger thought out loud. He didn’t even bother to learn more about the town he was driving to. He just came as soon as he got the lead. No matter. He needed to find the pile. The roars had stopped for a while, so he needed directions.

  “Boy! Point me to the pile where you saw the shadow,” he demanded.

  Will looked at him in disbelief.

  “I don’t know!” he shouted. “It was a long time ago!” Then he lowered his voice, ashamed “Maybe I didn’t even see anything…”

  “Think, Will!” the stranger grunted, walking closer to the boy.

  “I… I don’t know…” his eyes were wet, his mouth dry. “... I was running from Old Moss, and—”

  His voice died. He remembered what had happened to the old man.

  “And then what?!”

  “And … I turned right from his house,” Will said, struggling to remember. “Then climbed an infinite amount of mountains of waste, and dead shit, and—” he paused to catch his breath. “—I hid behind a large red couch. And then I saw it, I think…”

  “To your left or right?”

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  “What?”

  “You saw the shadow to your left or right, boy?!”

  He closed his eyes for a second, trying to remember. Took a deep breath. Then reopened them.

  “Left.”

  “Okay. Can you see the direction you went?” He said, pointing to a spot just a little to the right, back toward where they had come from. “This is where the old man’s house is.”

  Will was breathing fast, sweating a lot, swallowing and licking his lips. He couldn’t give the wrong information — not to this man. He needed to concentrate. Then took another deep breath. One… two… three. And now he could see where the “house” was. Following with his eyes to the left, he almost could see himself running from the old man, climbing piles, crying, screaming. One, two, ten, a thousand piles? He kept following to the left in a straight line from that place. Then his gaze landed on a specific pile, and he was 90% sure it was the one he landed on as a child. Because, if his eyes were not betraying him, he could swear he was seeing the red couch.

  “There!” he yelled, pointing in the direction of the recently found pile.

  “The couch is not on top of the pile, but in front.”

  “Hmm. Thank you, Will. You can go back to the car now. If I don’t return until sunrise, you can drive home.”

  The boy didn’t know what to do with that. The stranger had given him permission to leave — to end this nightmare. And yet, he couldn’t move. He didn’t know if this was curiosity, or a stupid desire to help, or even concern for the man. But he didn’t move an inch. There was a force keeping him there, he just hadn’t noticed it yet.

  The stranger didn’t notice — or care. He just turned in the direction of the big pile and started walking as fast as he could. Will watched the man go over one, two, three piles before he could finally move.

  Then the adrenaline took over. A rush hit him, with the possibility of ending this. He started walking, but soon he was running. He ran all the way back to the car, and when he got there, he was out of breath. And sobbing. He entered the car and sat in the passenger seat, his breathing slowly returning to normal.

  He waited a few minutes. This moment, this one, was his last chance to break free. He could have had a regular life. He would have taken a long time to recover from the nightmares, sure, but would still be a regular kid. But the pull was too strong, and was not fair to this boy. So I decided to interfere. Just a little, not enough to be noticed. Only a faint breeze of good judgement he was unable to summon at that moment.

  I whispered in his ear, What are you waiting for?

  “What am I waiting for?”

  He didn’t move. I insisted, Why are you waiting?

  “Why am I waiting?”

  Just a little push, to level the game. This wasn’t a regular occasion, not fair to play with regular rules.

  This gave him a sudden surge of energy. He jumped to the driver’s seat, started the car and turned around within the small circle that dead end allowed. He was going home.

  I felt a hint of hope creeping in. However, hope is a dangerous feeling, folks. And in a job like mine? Pointless.

  The stranger was almost at the last pile. And he could see it now — the red couch.

  “It is big, alright,” he said in a laboured breath. Big and suspiciously clean. There was no trash on it. Not a single item. Like a meeting point. He laughed. The idea was absurd, but it made sense somehow. After all, Old Moss was close to him.

  He reached the couch. Its legs were deep in the ground, but the dirt around it hadn’t been moved in ages. This couch had been in this same position for a long time. The boy had said he hid behind it. So the man circled around it, turned his back to the couch— facing away from where the old man’s house was — and looked to his left.

  There were many piles around him in that direction. Big ones, small ones. But what did the boy say? The oldest and deepest of the piles? Not necessarily the tallest, however.

  The man scanned the piles again, taking a longer time. In most of them, the items on top were clear and distinct — furniture, pans, toys, fridges, clothes, couches, mattresses. There was one that he couldn’t. Only one. It wasn’t the biggest or the tallest. But the items on top, they looked... melded.

  Old trash. Decomposed. Merging together as one.

  Chewed up and spit out.

  The stranger moved toward it, at a cautious pace.